afflicted with Saint Vitus’ dance.
Bobby was standing in the corner where Father Tom had left him, both
hands pressed to his left flank, as though stanching the flow of blood
from a wound.
Roosevelt blocked the hall door, holding one hand to his face, where
he’d been hit by the bud vase.
I could tell from their expressions I wasn’t alone in believing that the
priest was building toward an explosion of violence far more fearsome
than anything we had witnessed yet. I didn’t expect Father Tom to
metamorphose before our eyes, from minister to monster in one minute,
like a shape-changing alien in a science-fiction movie, half basilisk
and half spider, slashing-snapping-stinging-ripping its way through the
four of us, then swallowing Mungojerrie as if the hapless cat were an
after-dinner mint. Surely flesh and bone couldn’t be transformed as
quickly as popcorn kernels in a microwave oven. On the other hand, such
a fantastic change, pastor to predator, would not have surprised me,
either.
The priest did surprise me, however, surprised all of us, when he turned
his rage against himself, though in retrospect, I realized I should have
remembered the birds, the ve ve rats, and Manuel’s words about
psychological implosion. The cleric let out a wail that seemed to
oscillate between rage and grief, and though it wasn’t as loud as the
preceding cries, it was even more terrifying because it was so devoid of
hope. To this marrow-freezing lament, he repeatedly bashed himself in
the face with his right fist, and also with the semblance of a fist that
he was able to make with his deformed hand, striking such solid blows
that his nose crunched and his lips split against his teeth.
Sasha was still pleading with him, though she must have realized that
Father Tom Eliot was beyond her reach, beyond the help of anyone in this
world.
As if trying to scourge the devil from himself, he began to claw his
cheeks, digging his fingernails deep, and with those pincers, he went at
his right eye as though to pluck it out of himself.
Feathers suddenly whirled through the air, spinning around the priest,
and I was briefly confused, astonished, until I realized that Sasha had
fired the . 38. The pillow couldn’t have entirely muffled the shot, but
I’d heard nothing other than Father Tom’s wail drilling my skull.
The priest jerked from the impact of the slug, but he didn’t drop. He
didn’t bite off that skirling lament or stop tearing at himself.
I heard the second shotwhumpand the third.
Tom Eliot crumpled to the floor, lay twitching, briefly kicked his legs
as if he were a dog chasing rabbits in his sleep, and then was
motionless, dead.
Sasha had relieved him from his agony but had also saved him from the
self-destruction that he believed would condemn his immortal soul to
eternal damnation.
So much had happened since the priest had thrown the chair at Roosevelt
and the vanity bench at Sasha that I was surprised to hear Elton John
still singing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight? ” Before dropping the
pillow, Sasha turned toward the television and fired one more round,
blowing out the screen.
As satisfying as it was to put an end to the inappropriately uplifting
music and images of The Lion King, we were all alarmed by the total
darkness that claimed the room following a shower of sparks from the
terminated TV. We assumed that the becoming priest must be dead, because
any of us would be worm food, for sure, with three . 38 slugs in the
chest, but as Bobby had noted the previous night, there were no rules
here on the eve of the Apocalypse.
When I reached for my flashlight, it was no longer snugged under my
belt. I must have dropped it during the struggle.
In my imagination, the dead priest had already self-resurrected and had
become something that an entire division of marines couldn’t kill.
Bobby switched on one of the nightstand lamps.
The dead man was still nothing more than a man, and still dead, a ruined
heap that didn’t bear close inspection.
Holstering the . 38, Sasha turned away from the body and stood with her